


The Heart-verse

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GENDERSWAP. A directionless James Kirk somehow finds herself ditching her bike and boarding an Academy-bound shuttle. Originally written for the slashthedrabble prompt “flight”, but it got away from me. Mostly an exercise in characterization, so concrit? Muy appreciando, por favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For There the Heart Can Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Wasn't me.  
> Notes/Warnings: GENDERSWAP. Set at the beginning of Star Trek XI. Jim and Bones've always been girls.

Jim Kirk swaggers up the shuttle ramp--breezes past an incredulous Captain Pike and flashes him her most daring grin, never mind her swollen mouth aches like all  _fuck_  and there's likely still blood smeared on her teeth. She's probably sporting a nice raccoon-mask, too. Wouldn't be the first time and won't be the last.  
  
  
Hers is a very  _special_  brand of charm.  
  
  
“ _Four_  years, Cap'n Pike?” Jim tosses him a jaunty salute. "See if I don't do it in three.”  
  
  
Then she's striding past him. His quiet, approving chuckle warms her, and follows her into the shuttle. And it's not that she was uncertain he'd been serious about his offer--Jim Kirk never experiences anything so prosaic as  _uncertainty_ \--but that she instinctively respects him, and suspects his approval is a thing worth having. And that, so far, she rather  _likes_  having.  
  
  
All but glowing with extra confidence, she squints into the dimness, letting her eyes adjust. The shuttle's already packed, it seems, smelling of old, tempered metal and young, nervous sweat. Of synthetic fibers and too many brands of chemical-y soap. It's noisy, and larger than anything Jim's ever ridden, driven, boosted, or crashed, and she realizes just how narrow her scope for adventure had been, till Pike scraped her up off that barroom floor.  
  
  
Surveying her surroundings with a smile that's turned slightly predatory, she spies an empty seat near a cute-but-stuck-up-looking girl with a shaved head, and wearing the stupidest Starfleet-issue hat Jim's ever seen. Regardless, she smooths her slightly grimy clothes (tight black t-shirt and jeans that thankfully don't show up blood, and a distressed old motorcycle jacket. Finished off with vintage Doc Martens that'd cost Jim a week's pay) and makes for Hat-Girl, her own spiky--awesome--hair barely brushing the low-ish overhang above.  
  
  
On her way to the available seat, she notices the marked-up bruisers from last night--bunch of fucking wasteoids--she puts a little extra ramble in her amble, saluting them smartly. “At ease, assholes.”  
  
  
They seem thrilled to see her. The biggest one (the one Jim'd thrown the first punch at) even starts to unbuckle his seatbelt, but his ugly friends stop him, and a second later, they're not even in Jim's rearview. She's only got eyes for the girl in the lame hat. This air-bus probably has a lav, and Jim's always wanted to join the Mile High Club.  
  
  
A faint, down-low tingle begins where the tingling's good.  _Definitely_  time to feed the libido. It's been at least two days, and Jim hadn't managed to make any headway with that smokin-hot cadet before the Assholes Three had stuck themselves squarely in her mojo.  
  
  
A shame it was, even though Jim got something arguably better than that talented, linguist's tongue absolutely  _everywhere_. She got a whole new life--and who knows, she might even run into that cadet again. . . .  
  
  
But for now, she turns her charm setting to  _stunner_  as she slides into the seat. “Hi, there. I'm Jim.”  
  
  
“And I didn't ask,” Hat-Girl says flatly, turning slightly away. But to Jim, anything that isn't a _back the fuck off_  is practically a  _do go on_. So she does, attempting to buckle her seatbelt casually.  
  
  
“Y'know, according to Pike, I'll be a starship captain in about eight years, but you can start serving under me  _tonight_ , if . . . you . . . wa--hey, since you seem to be a whiz at these, could you at least help me with  _my_  seatbelt before you go?” Jim calls after the cadet's very nice, very dwindling ass until it disappears down another aisle of seats.  
  
  
“. . . just take a seat,” a slightly raised voice says, and gets closer. Curious, Jim looks toward it, wondering if the speaker is as pretty the voice and  _shinola_ , but she is. More so, even. Drop-dead-fucking- _gorgeous_ , if truth be told, and the devil be shamed. She  _wears_  those Starfleet issues like a woman  _should_.  
  
  
Which sets her about a thousand light-years apart from the wild-haired, broad-shouldered, Amazonish shambles she's towing in her wake.  
  
  
 _Yeesh_ , Jim thinks as her belt finally clunks shut. She supposes it takes all kinds. But the minder, at least, has  _Mile High Club_  written all over that toned, curvy body, and Jim's near-constant down-low tingle flares into something bright enough to see by. Something that makes her feel hot, over-dressed, and restless--makes Jim want to let the officer's thick, ink-dark hair down and plunge her fingers into it while kissing her breathless. . .   
  
  
“I  _had_  a seat!” the shambles declares in the least agreeable, brassiest drawl Jim's ever heard. Her clothes are baggy and creased, like she's slept in them more than once. The colors are muted, and might be flattering, if not for the woman in them. “A very comfortable,  _safe_  seat in the crapper, and there were no  _windows_ , and--”  
  
  
Officer Sweet-Thang takes a deep breath that draws the eye directly to her comm-badge and _hello_ \--do  _not_  pass go, do not collect two hundred credits--Jim G. T. Kirk is  _in love_. The kind of love that oughtta last just long enough to win her crazy-mad sincerity points when she finally makes her move. “Listen, recruit, if you need a doctor--”  
  
  
“I don't  _need_  a doctor. Ma'am. I  _am_  a doctor, and I have somethin' called aviophobia--it's a fear of air travel. Not to mention thanatophobia, a fear of death--in particular, my  _fiery, painful death_  in this gravity-defyin' rustbucket! Now, if you could just wrap your over-taxed mind around my very valid fears, I think you'll see--”  
  
  
“ _Sit down_!” Officer Sweet-Thang snaps, those glorious eyes flashing. Jim'd go over and offer to assist her with Dr. Head-Case, but decides not to. Now just  _might_  . . . not be the opportune time to play knight-in-shining-armor. “Sit down, Doctor, or I'll  _make_  you sit down.”  
  
  
Jim's instinct? Never yet wrong. She smiles, and hopes that by the time they get to San Fran, Officer Sweet-thang'll have cooled off enough to be receptive to an overture of dinner in the Starfleet Mess, and testing out Jim's brand-spanking-new mattress. . . .  
  
  
Patience really  _is_  a virtue--possibly the only virtue Jim Kirk has, and certainly the only one she's bothered to cultivate.  
  
  
Dr. Head-Case tries to stare down Officer Sweet-Thang with what has to be the most intriguingly _disdainful_  glare Jim's ever seen. Actually makes her sit back in her seat a bit.  
  
  
 _Huh,_  Jim thinks, interest peaked in a different direction for a different reason. Here, at last, is someone who's probably much less suited to Starfleet than even Jim is, if overall attitude is anything to go by. And if this is where the Academy's standards are trending . . . suddenly Jim's recruitment makes a lot more sense.  
  
  
She may be the best of an exceptionally bad lot.  
  
  
“Fine. Then,” the Doctor grits out. It's a frosty, snarling capitulation that earns her a triumphant smirk that's a bit of a turn-off, to Jim, though she couldn't say why. She's been known to smirk, a time or two, in her life.  
  
  
 _Ah, well. Easy come, easy go. If this shuttle ride's at all indicative, there's no end of hot, exotic women in the Academy. Hell, I'll probably have to pace myself, once I get settled in,_  she thinks optimistically, even as Officer Sweet-Thang sashays by. Ironically, she catches Jim's gaze with her own and drops a sexy, hel- _lo_  wink.  
  
  
Charm set to thanks-but-have-a-nice-day, Jim smiles back, bland and non-committal. Watches another amazingly perfect ass disappear down another aisle, and wonders why she isn't chasing after . . . only to look around when someone slams into the seat next to her, muttering  _meddlin', busybody bitch_  to herself.  
  
  
 _Oh, joy_.  
  
  
“I may throw up you,” Doctor Head-Case informs Jim before she can even look around proper. Up close, the woman looks even wilder than before, her angular, keen-featured face surrounded by a rapidly frizzing halo of brown hair. Her eyes are dark, wide, wide-set, and bloodshot. Surrounded by faint shadows and reigned over by straight, no-nonsense eyebrows that add a dash of broodiness to a frazzled, mad-cap appearance.  
  
  
If she weren't scowling and bugging her eyes out . . . if she were less . . . well,  _more pulled together_ , and not reeking of something that smells like it came out of a backwoods still, she'd be what Grampa Jim calls  _handsome_.  
  
  
Very much  _not_  Jim's type, but not homely, either.  
  
  
The wild-haired doctor tries to buckle her seat-belt, muttering to herself again about explosions and fiery deaths. It has the ring of a mantra that'll probably be repeated throughout the whole flight and . . . Jim rolls her eyes. She really doesn't want to be puked on. “Look, I, uh . . . I think these things are pretty safe, so try and relax,” she says, though it's probably pointless. Even though Jim doesn't believe no-win scenarios, she sure knows one when it sits next to her.  
  
  
The Doctor's penetrating gaze says she thinks Jim's naive as well as an idiot. “Oh, don't you pander to me, little missy. One tiny crack in this aging hull and our blood boils in thirteen seconds! Or a solar flare might crop up, an' cook us in our seats! And wait till you're flyin' blind with a case of Andorian shingles--tell me how relaxed you'll be when those pretty blue eyes of yours're bleedin'! Space is disease and danger, kid . . . disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence!”  
  
  
“Uh-huh.” All through this info-taining rant, Jim's been looking around, trying to spot another seat, wondering if it's even worth it to move. After all, it'd mean figuring out how to unbuckle this seatbelt with somewhat swollen hands, then get another one buckled, and . . . after the night Jim's had, that sounds like too much work, and none of it fun. . . .  
  
  
Feeling someone's gaze on her, she glances about till a familiar pair of dark eyes--Jim is a sucker for dark eyes, and this shuttle-trip is looking like an embarrassment of riches--glance away, a rueful smile curving perfect lips. Lips Jim wants to lick and kiss and tease. To find out if thy're as soft and perfect as they look. . . .  
  
  
 _Talk about someone I want serving under me,_  Jim thinks, noting the empty seat next to Cadet Uhura, and suddenly her hands don't ache as much, and the seatbelts don't represent as much of a hindrance. There was definitely a spark of . . .  _something_  between them, last night, Jim just knows it. And even if there wasn't, even if the cadet is  _straight_ \--  
  
  
“--there's nothing I like more than a challenge,” she murmurs absently, deciding that once the shuttle takes off, she'll excuse herself for a bathroom run. A minute spent checking her hair, and making sure there really  _isn't_  blood in her teeth, then she can re-take her seat next to the lovely, stand-offish cadet.  
  
  
The Doctor, wrapped up in her own misery, probably wouldn't even notice. Even now, she's yanking on the seatbelt buckles futilely, angrily, her face red and frustrated. Jim sighs irritably. “Look, in case you hadn't heard, Starfleet generally operates in space. That's where all the action is. And all the seatbelts.”  
  
  
“Oh, ha-ha, cadet.” The Doctor snorts, but it sounds kind of stuffy, like she's having sinus problems. “And yes, I've heard. But it's not like I've got anywhere else to go, is it? The ex-wife took the whole damn  _planet_  in the divorce. As it is, I was lucky to keep my bones,” she says darkly, crossing her arms and glaring at her scuffed shoes, a vein near her jaw throbbing steadily. She appears to have given up on the seatbelt, the slump of her shoulders saying she's beyond caring if she dies due to its lack.  
  
  
Jim peeks Uhura-ward again, but the cadet's not looking their way. She's staring determinedly ahead of her, gaze distant and unreadable. Another glance at the Doctor, and Jim catches the tail end of her swiping at her cheeks, harsh and impatient. Knows she wasn't  _meant_  to see, and that the Doctor  _knows_  she saw anyhow, and now . . . there's nothing to say in the uncomfortable silence that spins out between them.  
  
  
There are, Jim knows, no platitudes for this kind of raw heartbreak, so different but so similar to Winona's (even after she got re-married to The Step-Hole). . . .  
  
  
For a moment, Jim thinks it'd probably best to just ignore this bitter, angry,  _broken_  woman for the duration of the takeoff, then switch seats ASAP. But that moment passes too quickly for her to really get attached to it, and she's left directionless, and feeling vaguely young and useless.  
  
  
So she does what she always does when at a loss: follows her gut instinct.  
  
  
It takes a minute--a surprisingly silent one--but she gets the Doctor's seatbelt straightened out and buckled snugly over the Doctor's middle without catching the slightly ratty-looking sweater. When Jim looks up, the Doctor's watching her cautiously. Like no one's ever done her even so small a kindness.  
  
  
“Thanks for the assist,” she says woodenly, attempting a smile, and mostly failing. But her teeth are square, white, and perfect--like an ad for toothpaste. Her eyes aren't as bugged-out and angry as they were, though they're still haunted and terrifically unhappy.  
  
  
She holds out her hand, and when Jim goes to take it, she finds herself holding a small flask, and grins. Jim being Jim, that grin is no doubt as charming as it is stunning, if the suddenly charmed and stunned look on the Doctor's face is anything to go by. That awful grimace even settles into something that's very nearly an actual smile.  
  
  
“Anytime.” And Jim means it, thoughts of switching seats gone like they never were. The Doctor flushes and looks down at her seatbelt. Tugs on it and finds it secure, then almost-smiles up at Jim.  
  
  
“I'm McCoy, by the way.  _Dr._  Leontyne H. McCoy,” she adds with a pointed stare, as if Jim'd expressed doubts about her profession.  
  
  
Jim unscrews the flask and nearly chokes on the fumes. “Whoa--hope my eyebrows grow back! Pleased tameetcha, Doc . . . the name's Kirk.” She chokes down a healthy swallow that tastes like gasoline and makes her mouth, throat, eyes, and sinuses wish they were dead.  
  
  
A few seconds later, her trachea and lungs join the chorus, and she expects that her stomach'll follow, shortly.  
  
  
McCoy's expressive eyebrows disappear under untidy fringe as she watches Jim fight not to cough up actual viscera. “James--ah,  _fuck-shit_ \--George Tiberius Kirk.” McCoy's eyebrows stay hidden under her hair, but Jim doesn't bother to explain. She's proud of all her names, and rightly so. Picked them out her very own self, as soon as she was legal.  
  
  
They fit better than any pair of jeans or any motorcycle she ever owned. Better than her original name, or the family that gave it to her. “You can call me Jim.”  
  
  
McCoy snorts and rolls her eyes, but seems more amused than annoyed. “Whatever you say, Jim.” At that moment the engines kick into loud life, and McCoy pales alarmingly. Then she snatches the flask back and takes a deep, long swig without wincing. Jim is unwillingly impressed.  
  
  
“Keep that up, Doc, and you'll be too busy being unconscious to be worried about solar flares and shingles,” she says wryly, and McCoy actually laughs, briefly and not very merrily, but it's better than that wild, wounded look, and hastily-wiped tears that Jim has to pretend she doesn't see.  
  
  
Better than being puked on by far, though they've still got a ride ahead of them.  
  
  
Across the shuttle, Uhura is talking with the cadet next to her, a round-faced young man who's clearly already half-smitten.  
  
  
 _Get in line,_  Jim thinks regretfully. Then the shuttle's lifting off, fast and juddery for the first few seconds. McCoy's hand clamps down on her own, long-fingered and fine, desperation-strong and clammy. Harsh, shallow breaths whistle in and out of the Doctor's sharp, upturned nose, and Jim squeezes her hand back reassuringly.  
  
  
“It's okay, Doc. It's fine. We're both gonna be fine.”  
  
  
"Goddamn right, we are." McCoy nods vehemently, but obviously without a shred of belief, her dark eyes squinched tight-shut.  
  
  
Their ride smooths out quickly as they gain altitude and eventually the Doctor opens her eyes . . . but refuses to look out the window. And though Jim actually likes what little of the view she'd seen, she maintains eye contact with McCoy, whose grip loosens minutely. Keeps up a steady stream of anecdotes about classic cars, and the hot-wiring, restoration, racing and (ultimately, unfortunately) destruction of.  
  
  
She gets to hear the Doctor's tense, unhappy laugh again, though it stops being quite as tense and unhappy about three laughs in. There's even a weird, snort-y little giggle at the end of the later laughs (the rot-gut's surely kicked in by now), and Jim is shocked to catch herself re-evaluating the Doctor's attractiveness--something she almost never does.  
  
  
 _Well, I guess this time'll have to be that one and only exception that proves the rule, then._  
  
  
A rule that Jim fully intends to never again relax, since "cute-when-she's-tipsy-and-giggling-like-a-drunken-cheerleader isn't nearly as concise and helpful as "hot", or "smokin-hot", or "gorgeous", or a simple "hubba-hubba".  
  
  
By the time the shuttle lands in San Francisco--after a mere thirty-five minutes, and one other stop--Jim's regained most of the feeling in her hand, and McCoy, though still vaguely green, hasn't puked even a little. They exit the shuttle last, slowly, rank and file behind the other recruits, unaware that they've resumed holding hands.  
  
  
All around them is the fragile, lovely dawn of an overcast day that promises to be sunny once the fog burns off. There's a chill to the air, damp and unlike anything Jim's ever felt, and seagulls caw and complain nearby. In one direction, well-ordered streets and hills march off into the distant wall of fog. Dead-ahead at forty yards is a security check-point letting into green, immaculate grounds, with an interesting mix of old-fashioned and new-fangled buildings.  
  
  
This, then, is Starfleet Academy. . . .  
  
  
“*Home, sweet home,” Jim murmurs, her heart swelling and soaring. She can see what has to be New Coit Tower in the distance, and somewhere around here's the Golden Gate Bridge, and . . . she thinks she can hear the ocean. She can certainly smell it in the air, clean and salty. This time, she's the one to do the hand-squeezing. “Fuck me, Doc, I didn't know it'd be so . . .  _beautiful_.”  
  
  
“Well, it's solid ground, anyway, and that's definitely somethin' to recommend it,” McCoy agrees fervently. Then: “Goddamned flask is empty.”  
  
  
“Gee, I wonder how  _that_  happened.” Jim laughs, and catches a bemused, self-deprecating--almost . . .  _open_ \--smile on McCoy's face before she clears her throat and scowls.  
  
  
“C'mon, Jim. We'd better catch up quick before they make us do sit-ups, or punishment laps, or somethin,” she grumbles, aiming that fierce gaze at the backs of the cadets ten yards ahead of them. “And thanks for . . . back there.”  
  
  
Jim squeezes the hand linked with her own. “Like I said: anytime, Bones.”  
  
  
McCoy shoots her a sharp look, but Jim's already tugging her toward the security checkpoint. Toward home.  
  


The End

  
  
_*Every house where love abides_  
And friendship is a guest,  
Is surely home, and home sweet home  
For there the heart can rest.  
~Henry Van Dyke


	2. THe Best Friend Bones Ever Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim walks in on something she doesn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is one of many things I don't own.  
> Notes/Warnings: GENDERSWAP. A follow-up to For There The Heart Can Rest. Takes place during their first year in the Academy.

Jim saunters tiredly down the hall toward her dorm room, a lazy grin on her face. Her reds are unusually rumpled and disheveled, her hair—grown out too long for spikes even if she had the time time to bother doing it—is pulled back in a messy, shower-wet rat-tail.  
  
  
After a long,  _long_  night with Cadet Gandy, she’s looking forward to an entire day of lots of holo, and lots of sleep. Though she expects she’ll get neither. Bones also has this Sunday off, and on her off days, she tends to want to drag Jim to museums and plays in an effort to “culture you up, you savage.”  
  
  
Jim expects she’ll also have to weather the sharp side of Bones’s tongue regarding how much time she’s been spending with the female half of their dorm, as opposed to studying, or doing extra-credit work.  
  
  
What Jim does  _not_  expect to find is Bones naked on her bed, long, long—oh, my god, longfuckingbeautifulwhoknewshehadlegslike _that_?—legs splayed, one half off the bed, the other flung over the back of the woman laying between her legs.  
  
  
The woman who's eating her out, like eating-out-Bones is going out of style.  
  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Bones exhales shakily, her hand in the woman's short, silvering dark hair, clenching hard enough that it must hurt, must feel wonderful. And all Jim can think besides  _holy shit, this is hot_  is  _who the fuck_ is _this woman, and what the hell is she doing with_ my _Bones?_  
  
  
Jim unthinkingly steps forward—to do or say what, she doesn't know—and the door whooshes closed. And though the woman between Bones's thighs is far too engaged in what she's doing ( _noisily_  doing, like she's putting on a show), Bones's head whips toward the door, and her eyes widen.  
  
  
“Jim,” she gasps, screwing her eyes shut and practically levitating off the bed as she comes and comes.  _Vocally_ , her whole body—really, who knew Bones was hiding a body like that under her baggy red jacket and slacks?—vibrating and shaking like a mini-earthquake till she finally sags on Jim’s bed, limp as a dishrag.  
  
  
The stranger, meanwhile, kisses her way up Bones’s pelvis, stomach, torso, not stopping till she’s stealing deep, dirty kisses that Bones seems helpless to do anything but return.  
  
  
This goes on until Jim clears her throat once. Then again, because neither woman can take a hint. It’s dismaying that the stranger is the one to break the kiss to give Jim a heavy-lidded once over and a smirk.  
  
  
“Erm, Lee, love . . . there's a rather enraged-looking young woman watching us fuck.”  
  
  
“Yeah, I'd noticed,” Bones says, eyes still closed, chest still heaving. The other woman notes Jim's gaze and whips parts of the wrinkled coverlet over Bones.  
  
  
“And yet you don't seem surprised or upset . . . which would mean you must be the roommate, then. Hello . . . roommate.” The stranger has an English accent like something out of an old movie, refined and dapper. Her face is strong-featured, almost handsome. Pale, perceptive eyes size Jim up in a heartbeat, as if Jim’s the one who’s naked.  
  
  
Jim smiles, and hopes it looks as fake as it feels.  
  
  
“That’d be me. But I can't say I'm placing you as easily, though. Help me out here, Bones.” Jim bends a look Bones’s way, only for Bones to roll her eyes. She seems more annoyed than embarrassed, despite the flush that lights up her face.  
  
  
“Jim, this is my ex-wife—“  
  
  
“Joselyn Sundersen—forgive me if I don't come over to shake your hand.” The Ex's grey eyes dart back and forth between Bones and Jim. “Curious. You walked in on me and my wife having sex, and yet  _I_  feel as if I'm the one who should excuse herself . . . I find that odd. Lee, darling? Theories?”  
  
  
“Damnit, Jos,” Bones says, sitting up and shoving The Ex away, not looking at her, or Jim. “You're an asshole, sometimes.”  
  
  
“ _Only_  sometimes, then?” The Ex snorts, flopping back on Jim's bed, eyes half-lidded and playful. Her body’s all whip-cord, gym muscle. “I must be slipping in my old age.”  
  
  
“Oh, now don’t sell yourself short, darlin’. You’re still every bit the asshole you’ve always been.”  
  
  
“And you, my lovely, are still every bit the bitch you were on the day you were hatched.” There’s real asperity hiding underneath The Ex’s fond tones.  
  
  
“Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I think it’s time you fucked off, Joselyn.”  
  
  
“That’s right, Lee, freeze me out when things get too intense. Good show.” But The Ex hasn’t so much as budged from Jim’s bed. Neither has Bones, and this is all getting way too surreal for Jim.  
  
  
“Speaking of fucking off, I've gotta . . . go be somewhere that's not here,” she mumbles, and walks out, unnoticed by Bones or her ex-wife, who've already begun to squabble in earnest.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Jim doesn't get very far, once she leaves the room.  
  
  
In fact, she leans on the wall right across from the door, and slides down it, sitting tailor fashion. After staring at the door for a while, she leans her head back with a sigh, closes her eyes, and thinks of absolutely nothing at all.  
  
  
She's even managed to doze off when the door whooshes open, and The Ex steps out, looking cool, calm, and immaculate. Her charcoal and grey business-casual clothes are expensive, but understated—tasteful in a way that screams old money. Her short hair is tousled, but in that on-purpose way Jim's lost the knack of since she let her own hair grow out.  
  
  
The Ex sizes her up again with minimal interest.  
  
  
“Well,” she says finally, a small smile curving her thin-ish mouth. “You're well and truly gone, aren't you?”  
  
  
“What?” Jim demands, too tired to try and parse Ex-Speak: Two-point Brit.  
  
  
That smile widens. “I suppose that this is the part where I sarcastically wish you joy of her, and call her and/ or you some crass names, thus cementing the opinion of me I can see written on your adorable little face,” The Ex says ironically. “The only problem is, I happen to still be rather madly in love with her, so . . . I genuinely  _do_  wish her, if nothing else, joy of you. For  _her_  sake,” The Ex adds, purposely letting that mask of class and civility slip just a little.  
  
  
“Bones said you were a real piece of work,” Jim says, though with a tone of  _you're a complete fucking tool_. The Ex inclines her head graciously, all chink-free composure once more.  
  
  
“I had to be, to keep up with her. But don't take my word for it. You'll find out for yourself. Assuming you can hold her interest for that long.”  
  
  
The Ex strolls off, and Jim scrambles to her feet. “If you want what's best for her so bad, why don't you try sticking around for a change, and making sure she gets it?”  
  
  
“You've not the faintest, fucking clue what you're talking about, you ignorant little girl.” The Ex calls without looking back, her tone too casual, too amused, and too just-right to be on the level. “But my good wishes do not extend to the fast-track enlightenment of  _you_. In any event, take care of her, would you? Ta-ta.”  
  
  
That faintly mocking tone lingers long after she's gone. Long after Jim realizes she should've come back with  _I don't need your approval, well wishes, or permission to take care of my—_  
  
  
No word Jim comes up with—friend, best friend,  _only_  friend, or only  _only_ —seems to fit after this morning.  
  
  
And that's the problem, right there.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
It's another half an hour before Jim has the guts to go into her own dorm room—something that makes her ridiculously angry, even though she knows that it's Bones's room, too, and Bones never makes a fuss about who Jim brings back to the room. . . .  
  
  
Oddly enough, this realization only makes Jim angrier.  
  
  
As a consequence, she all but storms into the room, ready to out-glare a surly, embarrassed Bones. What she's  _not_  ready for, is a Bones who's curled up on her side, in her own bed, face turned into the pillow.  
  
  
Shaking.  
  
  
Jim could've more easily predicted getting a punch in the face—it wouldn't be the first time she and Bones had a knock-down drag out . . . though it  _would_  be the first time they had one while sober—than she could've predicted Bones looking small and utterly wrecked. Her hair, normally ruthlessly tamed into a French braid, is loose, damp, and just starting to frizz. She's wearing sweats, which she usually only wears to workout or to run. Her feet are bare and pale . . . which strikes Jim as . . .  _something_.  
  
  
Whatever that something is, it makes all her anger and sarcasm deflate like a punctured balloon, leaving her feeling young and useless, in the way only Bones can inspire. And only when she's hurting.  
  
  
And so, Jim finds herself crossing the room to kneel at Bones's side. She puts a tentative hand on Bones's hand, and a small, muffled sob escapes even though she yanks her hand away to wipe at her eyes.  
  
  
“I know what you're thinkin', and you're absolutely right. I'm a g-godamned idjit!” she sobs, tears running down her nose. She sounds absolutely miserable, in a way she hasn't since the day they met. It wrenches something inside Jim to hear Bones—wry, angry, bossy, occasionally sardonic, but always stoic  _Bones_ —weep her heart out like an unloved child.  
  
  
At a loss for words—something else that only Bones inspires—Jim does the only thing that feels right. She walks around the side of the bed, and curls up in it, behind Bones, and wraps her arms around her. For a long time, all they do is lay there, Bones shaking and weeping silently, Jim holding her, occasionally kissing her hair, her neck, her shoulder—whatever she can reach. Letting that shower-warmth seep into her skin, muscles and bones, relaxing them.  
  
  
The very last of her anger—even at The Ex, and for however briefly—fades. All Jim feels is that overwhelming  _something_  twist and churn in her chest and gut, and wrap itself around her insides like it's not planning to go anywhere.  
  
  
And still Bones shakes.  
  
  
“Wanna talk about it?” Jim asks quietly, burying her face in mostly dry hair that tickles pleasantly, and smells like something girly and tropical.  
  
  
“No. Not 'specially, Jim,” Bones husks out in a water-logged, nasally imitation of her normal drawl.  
  
  
“Alright, Bones.” Jim sighs, and hugs Bones closer. Closes her eyes before the  _something_  blocks out her sight. “Alright.”  
  
  
Though it's not alright, and Bones is still shaking like's it's very much not alright and for once, there's not a damn thing Jim can do about it.  
  
  
She's unaccustomed to feeling completely powerless, so she says the thing that’s been bothering her since The Ex left. “She’s says she’s still in love with you, you know?”  
  
  
“Yeah.” Bones sniffs and shakes a little. “I’m still in love with  _her_ , but . . . it doesn’t matter, anymore.”  
  
  
“I guess not, since she took all your money and ran. Bitch.”  
  
  
Bones snorts. “It wasn’t like that, Jim. I was the one who wanted the divorce. She didn’t. She wouldn’t stop contesting it—said the only way I was getting out our marriage was with nothing but the clothes on my back.”  
  
  
Jim blinks. “Holy shit. And you didn’t fight her on it?”  
  
  
“You don’t know her like I do, Jim. I was born into a lot of money, but she was born into  _way_ more. And she’d have spent every cent of it tryin’ to keep me.” Bones sighs. “She said as much, and she’s a woman of her word.”  
  
  
“So you let her take all  _your_  money, instead?”  
  
  
Bones shrugs. “It was just money. I valued my freedom more.”  
  
  
Silence reigns for a few minutes, then Jim asks the question that’s been nagging at her since she came into the room and found Bones weeping. “So was she here to try and get you back?”  
  
  
“No, she . . . came to wish me happy anniversary. . . .”  
  
  
“Oh, Jesus, Bones—“  
  
  
“And she gave me back my money. No strings attached.”  
  
  
“What I walked in on didn’t seem like no strings, to me.”  
  
  
Bones sighs again. “Just . . . leave it alone Jim.”  
  
  
She tries to pull out of Jim’s arms half-heartedly, but Jim’s not having any of it. Despite the fact that hearing Bones is still in love with The Ex, who broke her heart and took all her money, makes Jim feel like tearing her own hair out, she holds onto Bones with all her strength.  
  
  
“Damnit, that’s too tight, Jim.” Now Bones’s half-hearted struggles are becoming at least two thirds-hearted. But Jim’s got the tenacity and dexterity of a spider-monkey, and manages to get her legs around Bones’s, as well.  
  
  
“I’m not letting go till you talk to me. And don’t try to fob me off with evasive answers, because that ain’t gonna work.”  
  
  
“Let  _go_  of me!”  
  
  
“Make me!”  
  
  
“Fine, I will!” Bones jack-knifes, nearly breaking Jim’s nose, but Jim kind of expected that, and dodges easily, quickly getting Bones in a head-lock.  
  
  
“Gagh!” Bones croaks, flailing around and wriggling like a landed trout, till her clothes are askew and her hair is a big fluff-ball around her head. “Leggo!”  
  
  
“Not till you quit being an asshat.”  
  
  
“ _You’re_  the . . . asshat . . . asshat!”  
  
  
“You keep that up and you’ll be unconscious before you can finish your next insult. So I’ll say it again: quit being an asshat.”   
  
  
Bones doesn’t reply, but she does stop struggling, and Jim lets up on the head-lock a little. Then a little more when Bones doesn’t try to break her nose again.  
  
  
They lay there for awhile, breathing hard, not speaking till Jim sighs.  
  
  
“Do you really not wana talk about it this badly?” she whispers in Bones’s ear.  
  
  
“Yes. This badly. Leggo,” Bones grunts.  
  
  
“So we’re not gonna talk about me walking in on you getting done by your ex-wife, and said ex-wife then flouncing off in some rich-bitch huff? And then you, crying harder than I've ever seen anyone—including my widowed mother—cry? We’re never gonna talk about any of this?”  
  
  
“I don't have to explain a goddamned one of my actions to you, Jim.” But even this isn't said with the slightest fraction of Bones's customary fire and disdain, and Jim releases her and rolls onto her back.  
  
  
 _It's like she went from Pentecostal preacher to insurance claims adjuster,_  she thinks, watching Bones sit up and adjust her clothes. But not before Jim gets a tantalizing eyeful of back and hip, and the pale curve of one breast.  
  
  
Before she can stop herself, Jim’s sitting up, too, one hand sliding around Bones’s waist, the other sliding under her sweatshirt to cup that breast. It feels as soft and warm as it looked. As soft and warm as Bones can be, in unexpected moments.  
  
  
Bones inhales sharply, but doesn’t move away. “Jim, what’re you—“  
  
  
“Shh.” Jim leans forward and nuzzles the back of Bones’s neck, kissing her way earward. Despite having spent a very full night with Georgette “Gigi” Gandy, Jim’s suddenly raring and ready to go again—horny like it’s been weeks since she got laid. Which isn’t the case and hasn’t been since she was fourteen.  
  
  
“Sex can’t fix everything, Jim,” Bones breathes then moans when Jim’s thumb brushes across her nipple till it hardens.  
  
  
“No, but it sure can’t hurt. Unless, you know, you’re into that.”  
  
  
“Pervert.”  
  
  
“I try.” Jim tugs Bones back down to the bed, and looks into her eyes. They’re dark and vulnerable, and Jim caresses her cheek just to make her smile. It works, and Jim smiles back then kisses her. Not hard, and not deep, but just deep enough that Bones starts to respond tentatively.  
  
  
Jim’s kissed a lot of women, but never quite like this. It’s neither the best nor worst kiss she’s ever had, but it somehow blows all the other kisses out of the water; renders them forgettable.  
  
  
Bones sighs her way out of it after too short a time. “Jim, you’re my best friend—my  _only_  friend—”  
  
  
“So you aren’t attracted to me?” This is a rhetorical question. But the way Bones is pressed against her—has thrown one leg over Jim’s—is answer enough.  
  
  
Another laugh, this one wry. “Jim . . . if you weren’t my friend, I’d have tumbled you in a heartbeat months ago. But you  _are_  my friend, and I don’t wanna ruin that.”  
  
  
“Bullshit—“  
  
  
“I wish it was, but . . . you’re all I’ve got Jim . . . please. . . .”  
  
  
Jim’s used to women begging her  _please_ , but not in this way. So she cranks up her efforts another notch. Slides her hand down Bones’s sweatpants and strokes the soft hair between those gorgeous legs. Bones’s breath catches and her eyes flutter shut. “See? I can make you feel _good_ —better than  _she_  did—“  
  
  
“It ain’t about that, Jim. Please.  _Stop_.”  
  
  
“Fine.” Huffing in frustration, Jim obeys. Sits up and watches Bones do the same. She looks beautiful disheveled, and Jim wishes she looked like that more often. “So what  _is_  it about? You know good and goddamn fucking well one stupid comfort-fuck wouldn’t dent our friendship.”  
  
  
“Maybe, maybe not. But either way, I don’t use people to forget Joselyn. Especially not my best friend.” That steely  _Bones_  look that means comfort-fucking? Will not be happening today, or ever.  
  
  
Which makes Jim’s chest feel tight and achy for some strange reason; sort of like the one and only time she got dumped. Which is stupid, since it’s not like she and Bones are dating, or like she even  _likes_  Bones that way.  
  
  
She fidgets, and Bones smiles a little. “Oh, don’t give me that smile, Leontyne McCoy. I’m gonna have blue balls, thanks to you.”  
  
  
“My heart’s breakin’. Truly, it is.” Smoothing her hair to no appreciable effect, Bones laughs again. “Speaking of your balls, how’re things goin’ with you and Georgette?”  
  
  
And just like that, any chance at awkwardness between them is gone.  
  
  
“Eh. She hasn’t gotten clingy, yet.” Jim shrugs, and Bones rolls her eyes. “Oh, she says ‘hi,’ by the way.”  
  
  
“I’ll just bet she did.” Bones snorts. It’s no secret that Gigi and Bones can’t stand each other. They have the same xeno-biology classes where they constantly butt heads and compete with each other. “Little guttersnipe.”  
  
  
“Meow.” Jim grins and toes off her boots then bends easily into a full-lotus. “You oughtta go easier on her, you know.”  
  
  
“Maybe I will when she stops being such a sloppy, lazy-ass excuse for a doctor.”  
  
  
An unforgivable sin in Bones’s eyes. Just as Bones being twice the doctor that anyone in her class is, is an unforgivable sin in  _Gigi_ ’s eyes.  
  
  
It’s an argument she and Bones have gotten into before, and Jim doesn’t mean to get into it again. At least not until she’s lost interest in Gigi.  
  
  
“So . . . am I really your best friend?” she asks casually, and Bones tilts her head, smiling fondly.  
  
  
“Of course you are. You’ve may not have applied for the job, but you’ve been drafted.” The crooked smile makes Jim’s heart beat just a little bit faster. “Speaking of drafted. . . .”  
  
  
“No. No, and no, and no again!” Jim flops back onto the bed. “I’m  _tired_ , and all I wanna do is veg, and watch some holo. I don’t wanna have to sit through some fusty old play on my day off!”  
  
  
Bones leans over her, sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and Jim feels a low-down, dirty tingle that nearly makes her moan. “C’mon, Jim, it’s  _Peer Gynt_! When was the last time you saw that performed  _anywhere_?”  
  
  
“Never, and I aim to keep it that way.” Jim crosses her arms and scowls. Bones mockingly copies her. “The answer’s still no. Especially now, Mock-erella.  
  
  
“Even if I take you to brunch before, and go see  _Friday The 13th: Jason Take Tandor Prime_  with you, afterwards?” Bones bats her eyes ridiculously and Jim laughs.  
  
  
“Dude,  _never_  do that again, and you have yourself a deal!  _But_  . . . now that you’re rich again, you’re buying me a Super-Duplex popcorn with extra butter-like substance and a Mega-Gulp Bladder-Buster Cherry Coke—the kind with real sucrose in it, not that fake sweetener shit. Oh, and Raisinettes.”  
  
  
Bones’s eyes flick briefly to Jim’s mouth before she gets up and strolls to her closet, then the bathroom. “You must have the hardened arteries of a ninety-year-old.”  
  
  
“I want nachos, too! With extra cheese-like substance!”  
  
  
“A ninety-year-old, Jim! A  _decrepit_  one!” The bathroom door whooshes shut on Bones’s laughter, and Jim grins up at the ceiling. This isn’t the first time Bones has trash-talked Jim’s arteries or eating habits, and likely won’t be the last.  
  
  
At least, not if Jim has anything to say about it.  
  
  
Shrugging off her lingering exhaustion and soreness—Gigi’s  _demanding_  in bed and has more toys than FAO Schwarz—Jim gets up, stretching out kinks, and mentally preparing herself to be the best friend (only) Bones’s ever had.  
  



End file.
